Cuttings

Post by **brandy** » March 9th, 2006, 4:41 pm

Her soul bleeds from wounds, inflicted by those who care.
They only wanted to help, but just added to her despair.

A beautiful spirit lost in the dark.
Crimson streams drowning out the spark.

A magnificent mind with unlimited potential.
Imprisoned by fear, her release is essential.

Through all the pain and confusion, she devises a plan.
To stabilize the chaos, she takes a blade into her hand.

BLM

Post by **stilltrucking** » March 9th, 2006, 4:48 pm

running from those who care
into the arms of perfect strangers
the chaotic stability of momentum
moving the closest thing to being free
Hit the road Jack
the peace and solitude of anonymity
where no one knows your name

Post by **dolphin girl** » March 10th, 2006, 8:03 am

life is worth the living
the living are not worth your life.
watch the sunsets
and marvel
be strong in yourself
no one else is going to

look around take note
in the beauty around
a red rose
singing birds
gently flowing water
now these are worth
living for.

take heart my friend. perhaps things will get worse before they get better.

live for today, because tomorrow may not come.

Your words are very moving, and i hope only a cry and not something else.

Find life in the unseen. Share your dreams, don't stifle a beautiful gift. Dive into your words, and know they heal.

Post by **brandy** » March 11th, 2006, 6:26 pm

I was moved to write this after walking in on my ex-girlfriend while she was cutting. The words I wrote were an attempt to understand her pain and her need to feel the control over her own life.
Never fear my new friend, I have much to live for and am thankful for each day, whatever it brings.

Post by **stilltrucking** » March 13th, 2006, 9:33 am

I can not express in words how much your poem nauseates me.

Post by **Marksman45** » March 13th, 2006, 11:08 am

I know a lot of people who cut themselves, whereas I only know one person who did it as an attempt at suicide. All the others had no intent towards injury. For some of them, it was a recourse to feeling, to feel the pain just to feel <i>something</i>. For some, it was an act of power. For some, it was a cry for help. For some, it was pleasurable, in a masochistic sort of way. Others were just fascinated with the way the blood feels coming out of the cuts.

Many of them romanticized it. In a way, it can be a fashion statement, the horizontal (that is, perpendicular to the veins. When someone cuts their arm horizontally, they either have no intention of killing themselves, or they don't know how to do it properly) white scars. My friend Griffen came up with the phrase "wearing razors for jewelry" to describe it. (We also formed a band called Razors for Jewelry)

Post by **stilltrucking** » March 14th, 2006, 6:26 pm

I did not mean to sound critical. The poem just made me sick. I suppose that is high praise for a poem. That it made me feel something. I have read The Bell Jar too many times. Insanity is not always some exotic thing. It is mundane sometimes. I had a friend who used to have one of those floppy camouflage hats people wore back in the sixties. It had a little patch on it that said “Participant South East Asian War Games 1968-1969". He had cigarette burns on his arms. I asked him how that happened. He said it was just a little game he and his buddies used to play.

Post by **Marksman45** » March 15th, 2006, 8:58 am

I didn't think you were being critical. My post was directed at everyone who reads the thread. Just a report based on my observation & experience

Post by **brandy** » March 15th, 2006, 10:25 pm

Thankyou for your thoughts.

If you felt anything (be it nausea or any understanding of how lost even people you may be close to feel.) Then I guess it served it's purpose.

BLM

Post by **stilltrucking** » March 16th, 2006, 6:33 am

It is a helpless feeling to watch someone suffer and not be able to help.

As if there is an invisible wall between them and you that blocks communication.
For me the most terrifying thing about insanity is the loss of the ability to communicate with others.
We are such social animals; it is our essence I think.
I am not sure what made me feel nauseous, I think it was the blood. Maybe nauseous was not the best choice of words. Faint might be a better word to describe what I felt. There was something so feminine about your poem. Except for my friend with the cigarette burns I have not known anyone but women and girls who have mutilated themselves. I am pretty dumb about women but it seems they are so much more involved with their bodies then men. And they suffer more from delusions about body image.

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